Handlebars
by Epicminion
Summary: Wesley Evans stepped out of the sleek, black car that had picked him up from school. He barely made it up the stairs before his younger brother, Soul, had thrown the doors of their home open. Soul was rushing at him, a large smile plastered on his face as he waved a piece of paper for Wes to see. (Warning, someone dies...)


_Hello everyone! This is my current baby and I hope you all like it! A great big thank you to unboundbymusic and eatmoretoast for betaing this for me! Also, there is some character death in here, just a warning! _

_—-_

Wesley Evans stepped out of the sleek, black car that had picked him up from school. He barely made it up the stairs before his younger brother, Soul, had thrown the doors of their home open. Soul was rushing at him, a large smile plastered on his face as he waved a piece of paper for Wes to see. When he finally got the younger boy to calm down, he took the drawing from his brother's tiny three year old hands— it showed their very crudely drawn family. He looked it over one last time before turning his attention back to his excited brother.

"Do you like it?" he asked.

Wes smiled, bent down, lifted up Soul and spun him around. "I love it, little brother. Let's get mother to put it on the fridge."

He then put down the still-giggling Soul and allowed him to take his hand, tugging him in the direction of the kitchen.

—

Wes got out of the car and was almost run over by a flash of pale white hair on a bike.

"Look Wes," six year old Soul called out. "No hands!"

Wes laughed, stepping towards the stairs that went up to their house, avoiding his little brother who rode his bike around the front yard, cackling maniacally. He was teetering dangerously, Wes noticed. He called out to him to tell him to use his hands again, please.

Soul only went faster.

—

"Wes, Wes, Wes!" Soul's voice echoed from the piano room, down the hall from where Wes currently was resting after a long day of school.

"Look what I learned!"

When Wes entered the room he was greeted by the continually uncontrollable mop of white that was attached to seven year old Soul, who was sitting on the piano bench in front of the large grand piano, his feet dangling down, straining to reach towards the pedals. He sat with his back straight and tall as he began to play with a natural ease that only came with years of practice, each note echoing throughout the room before being replaced by the next. It was beautiful, it was way ahead of what the skill level of the average seven year old should be able to do. It was better than even most twenty year olds could do.

As the last notes faded out, Soul looked up at his big brother expectantly. "Did you like it?" he asked.

Wes smiled. "I loved it."

—-

Their father was still yelling, Wes noticed. He had been yelling at Soul for the past hour.

Soul had long since given up replying, or rather, Wes hadn't heard him reply.

Soul had missed a few notes during his last recital, which had brought their father's wrath upon him. Wes knew his brother didn't like playing the piano anymore. Soul may have loved it as a young child but, at the age of ten, he hated it with a passion.

Wes wasn't stupid. He knew what it was from— the secretive, snide comments said just loud enough to hurt, the haughty stares and the voices that quieted as he walked by.

People talked about Soul, Wes knew it. He tried to stop them, but they spoke out anyway, saying that Soul was not as good as Wes, that their parents must be ashamed about how low-leveled his playing was. They said so many things. Most of them where lies. Soul was great at playing the piano, fantastic even, he didn't play the violin so the comparison between the brothers was not apt. Their parents were not ashamed.

At the start of the whispering, they told him to block out the voices and the harsh words, but slowly their positions changed. Wes' mother began to doubt his brother, but she never voiced her doubts to anyone, much less Soul. Their father was different, he was very, very vocal about his doubts. The first time he yelled at Soul it was after a concert. Soul was seven and a half. He had messed up about ten notes that Wes could tell. Ten total in the entire performance.

Today it was three. Three notes wrong, they were hardly even noticeable.

But their father noticed. Wes noticed. Their mother noticed.

Almost half an hour later when the yelling had stopped, Soul had slunk past his brother's room, his shoulders hunched and his eyes down. He glanced up as he passed Wes's door before glancing back down. He looked betrayed.

—-

When Soul was eleven, Wes heard his true music for the first time. It was loud, sounding like a clash of notes, a cacophony. It echoed through the empty halls of their mansion. It pulled Wes from his sleep, but what kept him up wasn't the music, it was the quiet tears that came with it —from both sides of the walls.

—-

Soul's piano playing was hollow now. It lacked the necessary emotion for the tone of the piece. He played it well, of course, holding each note for the night amount of time before he released it, the pressure he kept on the keys correct. It was hard to notice, but Wes saw it. Their entire family saw it. Wes' father screamed at Soul, his mother asked Soul calmly what was wrong.

Soul only shook his head before turning back to the black and white keys before him, blocking them out as he played once more, perfecting his piece, his back straight.

But at night it echoed, all the cords he wouldn't play in the light of day came out as he sat, well past midnight, slumped over the keys as he played, the sound of his shattered heart ringing in every note.

"Wes, look," Soul said his voice devoid of emotion. "I don't want you to freak out, but there's something I need to show you."

Wes was startled, Soul hardly ever seemed to want to show him what he could do any more. Gone were the days when Wes would come home to a excitedly bouncing little brother, ready and willing to share with Wes what he did and what he learned. He didn't want to miss this chance, to show Soul he was there for him, to help him. "Ok," was all he said.

Soul took a deep breath and held up his arm. There was a flash of light and in the place of his arm, from the elbow up, was a blade. It was red, black and sharp. A gasp caught in Wes's throat as he stared. His brother was a weapon.

After some time, Soul broke the silence Wes had unintentionally created, the blade flashing as it returned to his brother's flesh and bone.

"Well?" was all Soul asked, his voice nearly breaking.

—-

The first time Wes got a phone call after Soul left for the DWMA was very exciting. He could hear the joy and delight in Soul's voice as he spoke about his new friends, his teachers, his meister. He told him about the start of the school year, about his new apartment, how he was being trained to transform completely. He sounded truly enthusiastic, something Wes hadn't heard in a very long time. Soul spoke quickly into the phone, his excitement nearly palpable. Wes was happy for him.

—-

Wes hadn't heard anything from his brother in two years. He had seen some news clippings here and there, but there wasn't a lot. He understood Soul's desire to get away from it all, the pressure and the fame. But it hurt Wes to be cut out alongside the bad and ugly sides of Soul's life, along with the suffering and the pain. He understood, he felt the same way as Soul, sometimes. But being left behind would always still hurt.

—-

When Soul was seventeen he called for the first time in years. His call was composed entirely of hushed apologies. He would be going to the moon the next morning, to combat the Kishin, a monster that resided there. He apologised, saying that he was sorry he didn't call Wes before, that he thought he would have had more time. He said all this in a hushed voice and when Wes asked him why he answered that his meister was in the room down the hall and he didn't want to worry her or wake her up, on the off chance she was asleep.

—-

When Wes finally saw Soul again, he was eighteen. Wes wished he hadn't seen him. Soul's skin was pale and bloodless. He was cold as he rested in his black coffin. His hair was perfectly combed and there was a girl at his side. Her green eyes were rimmed with red as she turned to look at him. Wes could see the recognition in her eyes, after all, he and Soul had always looked so, so similar.

The girl's name was Maka.

She was Soul's meister.

She had loved his brother.

She blamed herself and Wes could tell from the look on her face that she always would.

She didn't say any of it, Wes could just tell. He could feel it, almost. Her pain, her sadness, her guilt. They seemed almost palpable.

His mother placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed softly. She understood, she had always been good at reading people.

His father, however, was not. He was yelling now, yelling at this girl he didn't know. About how it was her fault that his son was dead.

Maka didn't reply, but from where Wes stood, facing her back beside his father, he could see her shaking. He could see his mother tighten her grip on her shoulder.

Wes never spoke up to his father as a child when Soul was yelled at. He had always shut his door and hid. But Soul was dead now, at least he could stand up for this girl.

"Stop, Father," Wes said, his voice firm. "It's not her fault. It was Soul's choice."

—-

The funeral was sombre, there was a lot of crying and the speeches were nice. Maka had stopped crying now, but Wes suspected that it was more likely that she had run out of tears than that she was over it. Her jaw was set in a straight line and her eyes were dull. She smiled a few times, when she gave her eulogy. His brother was so important to her that Wes almost cried again, like he did when he heard the news. If he hadn't been trained to control his emotions in public, he would have.

—-

He meet her again, a few years later. She was twenty-two now and he could tell she was still heartbroken.

It amazed him how much she was like his brother. They must have rubbed off on each other a lot, especially if his traits still stuck with her five years later.

He wished he could have seen his brother before he passed, he wished his brother hadn't left this girl so soon, if at all.

"I found something while I was cleaning out his stuff, I felt that I should show you," Maka said, handing him an envelope.

It was a letter, addressed to him.

—-

Wes had always wanted Soul was his best man at his wedding, but that wasn't to be. Instead, Wes's friend stood were Soul should have.

Wes was happy to be marrying his beautiful wife.

He just really missed Soul.

—-

Wesley Evans stepped out of the sleek, black car that had picked him up from school. He barely made it up the stairs before his child had thrown the doors of their home open. He was rushing at him, a large smile plastered on his face as he waved a piece of paper for Wes to see. When he finally got the young boy to calm down, he took the drawing from his child's tiny three year old hands— it showed their very crudely drawn family. He looked it over one last time before turning his attention back to his excited son.

"Do you like it?" he asked.

Wes smiled, bent down, lifted up him and spun him around. "I love it, Soul. Let's get your mother to put it on the fridge."

He then put down the still-giggling Soul and allowed him to take his hand, tugging him in the direction of the kitchen.


End file.
